


A Stormy Sea of Love and Emotion

by katiemariie



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Canon Disabled Character, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8055217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: Or three times Data went to Geordi and Barclay with a medical problem that turned out to be feelings for Worf (and one time it didn't).





	1. Analyzing Data

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SweetPollyOliver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetPollyOliver/gifts).



Barclay pulls away, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Uh, you know, I was thinking just now—well, not just now. Not while I was—and-and certainly not while you were… Earlier. Before.”

Geordi gazes down the bed at him, wearing nothing but a lazy, postcoital smile and his VISOR. It’s a habit he’s trying to break—the VISOR, not the smile (he could get used to that). As a rule, Geordi doesn’t go to bed with the VISOR on. It’s sturdy enough to withstand any tossing and turning, but that constant visual input during sleep wreaks havoc on his unconscious mind, leading to some very disturbing dreams. Taking the VISOR off before going to sleep has never been a problem before; he’s been doing it every night since kindergarten. Going to bed with someone in this easy way of theirs is entirely new. Geordi has never had much luck with love, finding himself in only short, nervous love affairs where dozing off in each others’ arms was a distant fantasy. With Reg, he’s found a home in that nervousness, accepted it, and, well, the bed is so warm with the two of them in it, and Reg’s breathing exercises form this pleasant white noise that lulls Geordi to sleep. 

He really needs to take the VISOR off before they start anything. But it happens so casually. One minute they’re talking about hexi-prismatic fields and the next they’re rolling around naked. (To be honest, sometimes they’re doing both at once.) This is inevitably followed by Reg’s awkward, adorable attempts at pillow talk and then a night of odd dreams.

Knowing his place in tonight’s routine, Geordi removes his VISOR, gingerly placing it on the bedtable. Not bothering to look down at Reg (Geordi has found himself one of the rare sighted people who doesn’t care about eye contact), Geordi asks, “What about?”

“Well.” Reg crawls up the bed, but keeps his distance. “I just happened to be thinking about you, and, you know, how, well, you’re going to die.”

Geordi finds Reg’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’m not going to die. Not anytime soon.”

“I know. Counselor Troi has reassured me of that many times. I just sometimes think about you dying. And not because thinking about you dying will actually stop you from dying. Deanna and I both agree that’s ridiculous. It’s just, well, back when perhaps maybe I didn’t think that was so ridiculous, I realized that you are the only person on the Enterprise or anywhere really who knows Commander Data’s internal systems. And statistically speaking, you will die before him, even barring a shuttlecraft accident, transporter malfunction, assimilation by the Bo—”

“Reg.”

He coughs. “The point is: for Data’s sake, you shouldn’t be the only person who knows how to diagnose and treat him.”

“Are you volunteering?”

“My specialty _is_ systems diagnostics.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll run it by Data tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Really. Now, get over here. It’s your turn to be the big spoon.”

—

“I know this can’t be easy for you, Worf,” Deanna says.

If it were anyone else, Worf would snap back that she has no idea how he’s feeling, not an inkling of what a blow he’s just been dealt but while she is no Klingon, she is an empath. So, he simply growls, “How long?”

“He first came to me about this almost a year ago.”

“A year?” This is no passing fancy, not a phase.

She nods. “He was afraid to tell you, and I wasn’t going to force him. But the closer he gets to the Age of Ascension, the more anxiety this secrecy causes him. We both agreed that the best thing would be to tell you sooner rather than later.”

Worf inhales deeply, thinking of the small boy just sent out into the Counselor’s waiting room. “I suppose that was the honorable thing.”

“You taught him that.” Deanna smiles wanly. “Even if he doesn’t want to be a warrior, he still wants to be like you.”

“That’s exactly what I was trying to prevent,” Worf whispers heatedly, careful of the young ears just across the bulkhead. “There is no place for me amongst Klingons, but for him, I thought perhaps if he was raised properly by another Klingon, he would be able to—”

“Be the Klingon warrior you never were?” Deanna finishes. There are, it seems, limits to empathy. 

He glares. “Not be the outcast I have always been.”

Likely sensing the hurt her assumption caused, Deanna moves from her armchair to sit beside Worf on the couch. “You don’t want Alexander to experience the exclusion and alienation you’ve faced. You’ve tried to lead him down the only path to acceptance you know: the way of the warrior. But that’s not Alexander’s way. I don’t know as much about Klingon culture as you do, but I believe, I hope, that Alexander can find a place within Klingon society—even if he’s never the subject of an epic poem or a bronze sculpture.”

No, never the subject, that much is clear, but perhaps… Worf’s brow furrows as his mind seizes upon the idea. “Alexander was never fated to be a warrior,” he says as much to himself as to Deanna. “No, his destiny lies elsewhere. He is going to be an artist. A great artist. One whose work immortalizes the ephemera of honor, providing continuity from one generation to the next, inspiring countless warriors to battle in his name, earning him a place in Sto-Vo-Kor a thousand times over. My son, an artist.”

“That’s one option,” Deanna says.

Worf reigns himself in. “Of course. I was merely speculating.”

“It’s okay to be excited about Alexander’s future. Just remember you can’t choose it for him.”

“Of course. Each child must forge his own path.” And, as everyone knows, it is not in an artist’s nature to listen to his father. (Alexander already has that down.) “If you’ll excuse me.” Worf stands. “Alexander is waiting.”

At the swish of the door, Alexander looks up from his feet. (A twisting in Worf’s chest like a knife between the ribs as Worf realizes his behavior made his son look down in shame, in dishonor he has done nothing to earn.)

“Alexander,” Worf says. 

“Father.” Alexander stands.

“Let’s go home. We need to have dinner.”

“Are you mad at me?” This must be the twelfth time Alexander has asked this in the past half hour.

“No. I am hungry.” Worf pauses. “But I forgot to plan our meal for this evening. Perhaps you should decide.”

Alexander thinks for a moment, following Worf out into the corridor. “Grilled targ and cheese?” A dish K’Ehleyr used to serve that has since taken on the air of a rare delicacy in the boy’s mind after living with Worf’s parents. (Targ, having neither an appetite for cud nor cloven hooves, is served sparingly in the Rozhenko house.)

“Very well.” Worf shortens his stride to keep pace with his son. “Now that you have decided not to become a warrior, perhaps we should stop doing Katai drills after dinner. We could do something else.” Worf feigns the most casual tone he’s capable of (which is not very casual at all). “Perhaps I could teach you how to play the guitar. Or maybe take an art class together. Or even meditate and then compose—”

“An art class sounds fun,” Alexander interrupts. “We don’t get to do a lot of art in school.”

“You don’t?”

“No. It’s mostly just math and science.”

“I see.” Worf foresees a very long discussion with Miss Kyle about the value of a well-rounded education. “An art class, it is.” After he finds an art class.

—

“Mr. Worf, you truly think I am capable of teaching you and Alexander? You hold my work in such high esteem?”

“Yes.” In a lie of omission, Worf does not mention that Data is the only visual artist he knows on-board. (Worf does not make a habit of getting to know his crewmates.)

“Then I would be honored.”

—

The symptoms come on gradually. At first, they’re confined to his quarters: a slight, sporadic deviation from his pseudo-humanoid autonomic processes. Then it carries over to the bridge, Ten Forward, even the turbolift. Data doubts anyone else has noticed these small lapses, but he personally finds this unbidden break from physical routine concerning.

“It’s nothing mechanical,” Geordi pronounces. “Anything on your end?”

Barclay, Geordi’s near constant shadow (not that Data experiences jealousy) looks up from his modified tricorder. “Nothing systemic.”

“Perhaps the irregularity is only detectable as it occurs,” Data offers.

“That’s gonna make diagnosing it tricky,” Geordi says.

“Maybe not.” Barclay steps towards Geordi. “Do you remember when I thought I was having heart palpitations?”

“Dr. Crusher said it was anxiety.”

“Yes, but to be sure, she had me wear a medical tricorder for a week, and press a button whenever I felt a heart palpitation. At the end of the week—”

“She had a record of the phenomena,” Geordi finishes.

“Exactly. We could do the same thing with a modified tricorder.”

“And even better Data has an eidetic memory, so he can record his environment at the moment of the attacks perfectly.”

“We can analyze that data—”

“To analyze Data!”

From his examination chair, Data cannot see either of them, but based on past observations he estimates a very high probability that they are giving each other eyes reminiscent of a female deer’s over his head.

—

Instance 1

Setting: the Bridge

Circumstances: Discussion about lunch amongst bridge crew has turned into a debate about the best sandwich. Mr. Worf affirms that a hot sandwich containing dairy cheese and porcine meat native to Qo’noS is superior to all others, and refuses to hear any further arguments.

—

Instance 8

Setting: Ten Forward

Circumstances: Guinan requests assistance in creating a replicator pattern for an artificially sweetened prune juice substitute after receiving complaints that sugary drinks are not suitable for children.

—

Instance 17

Setting: my quarters

Circumstances: Painting lessons. Mr. Worf remains pleased with Alexander’s innate skill, but still displeased with his own shortcomings as an artist.

—

Instance 23

Setting: the holodeck

Circumstances: Touring the Galleria Nazionale di Capodimonte. Mr. Worf determines Artemisia Gentileschi to be an “artist of honor,” is somewhat dismayed to read that she is dead. Alexander thinks the blood is “neat.”

—

Instance 31

Setting: my quarters

Circumstances: Mr. Worf poses Alexander next to his completed painting for a holo-capture to send to Alexander’s grandparents.

—

Instance 32

Setting: corridor 14g

Circumstances: Mr. Worf nods as we pass each other.

—

Barclay looks up from his PADD. “Without running the qualitative data through analysis, I can’t be certain, but there, uh, there seems to be one constant.”

Geordi tightens the stimulus relay, snapping the feedback monitor into place. “What’s that?”

“Mr. Worf.”

“Worf?”

“I noticed that as well,” Data says. “I believe I may have developed an allergy to him.”

“An allergy?” Geordi asks.

“In a manner of speaking. An ongoing malfunction in my neural net triggered by thoughts about him. Like a human being exposed to an allergenic substance, my autonomic nervous system reacts to his presence in my thoughts.”

“It’s a good theory, but a neural net malfunction—even one with specific triggers—would be visible from even a cursory scan. You may be the most complex synthetic lifeform in existence, but your systems were still created to be easily monitored.” Geordi shakes his head. “It’s gotta be something else.”

“Even so, I am unwilling to rule out neural net malfunction until we replicate the phenomena for direct observation.”

“All right. Reg, monitor the readouts.” He can understand why Data is being cautious and he is excited to play with the new toy he invented for this very purpose, but a live demonstration isn’t going to give them any more information than the records in front of them. The records that have no indication of any malfunction—-neural net or otherwise. 

“Watching readouts,” Barclay says.

“Okay. On the count of three, I am going to feed the readings from Instance 32 directly into your nervous system, replicating the phenomena. One, two, three.”

A soft, almost wistful exhalation.

“All readouts are within normal parameters,” Reg says, not looking up from his PADD. “The phenomena seems to be a simple reaction to external stimu—”

“It’s a sigh.” Geordi laughs. “Data, you’re sighing. The way you described it, I thought you were just puffing out air, but you’re sighing.”

“I will admit that I recognized some similarity between the phenomena I experienced and my own observations of humans sighing, particularly the noises you make while in proximity to Lieutenant Barclay,” Data says. “However, given that sighing is an external response to internal emotions, I did not believe myself capable of producing a genuine sigh. It would be like burning a fire without oxygen.”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. We’ve ruled out any possible mechanical or systemic causes, so a psychological trigger remains are most likely explanation. And as Holmes would say…”

“When you have eliminated all which is possible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” Data quotes.

“You’re experiencing feelings. And for Worf of all people.”

“Your logic is sound, and such a development would mark a major milestone in my journey towards self actualization, but I wonder... if I were having feelings strong enough to elicit repeated physical response, wouldn’t I have noticed?”

“Not necessarily,” Barclay says. “A few months ago, I was convinced that the replicators were leaving some kind of residue on my uniforms that caused me to break out into hives at the beginning of each shift. It turns out it was just a mixture of anxiety and…” Reg glances at Geordi. “...infatuation.”

“Fascinating. Do you think I could be infatuated with Mr. Worf?”

Geordi shrugs. “As much as anyone else could be.”

—

Personal log:

Since beginning the pursuit of further developing my own humanity, I have taken for granted that when I finally achieved the ability to feel and express genuine emotion, the phenomena would occur from the inside out. That is, I would feel an emotion internally and then express it externally (for example, see my catalog of body language and vocal intonation). However, my most recent exam with Commander La Forge and Lieutenant Barclay suggests quite the opposite. In reference to Mr. Worf, I have begun to express emotion without consciously experiencing it internally. 

While unexpected, I believe this development provides an opportunity to tap into my capacity for feeling. I hypothesize that through increased exposure to the stimuli, I can increase and possibly magnify the phenomenon, providing greater opportunities to analyze its connection to my inner state. 

—

Worf glares down at his cross-stitch, feeling a tremendous sense of failure despite the relative success of his new project. It had made sense when he and Alexander first started for them to work on similar projects: first sketching then acrylics, then oils, then watercolors, and so on. However, once Alexander showed himself to have as much innate skill with a paintbrush as Kahless had with a bat’leth, and Worf stabbed through two of his own canvases in frustration, it became quite clear that Data could not teach to both of their skill levels at once.

Hence the cross-stitch, an art form that is far more forgiving—and, in fact, even encouraging—of repeated stabbings.

While Worf knows that his mother will hang his Yiddish rendering of “Today is a good day to die” in a place of prominence, he can’t shake the unease at failing where his child succeeds. It has been a long, grueling journey for Worf to accept that Alexander flounders in the situations in which his father thrives. He never imagined that the opposite could ever be true. (And, of course, if Worf is honest with himself (something he avoids out of self-preservation), after a lifetime of seeking acceptance through overachievement, losing the title of star pupil to anyone (let alone a small child) precipitates a massive crisis in self-confidence.)

Given his hopes for Alexander’s future, this is a wonderful, if annoying, problem to have. (It’s only now that Worf considers what conflicting emotions his own childhood success may have inspired in his father, who retired from Starfleet as a Chief Petty Officer at forty-five to see his son make ensign at seventeen.)

Worf follows the pattern, plunging the needle into the cloth.

“I see you have chosen red for the lettering,” Data says, peering down at Worf’s handiwork. “A strong aesthetic choice. Classically, red has been associated with the lifeblood both as the physical substance spilled on the battlefield and as a metaphor for the passions that drive us to battle.”

“Red,” Worf says, “is my mother’s favorite color.”

Data’s lips part slightly, emitting a soft noise that coming from anyone else Worf would call a “sigh.” This being Data, Worf assumes he is just venting some kind of internal pressure.

Data glances across his quarters at Alexander, who remains thoroughly immersed in his painting and the personal musical device Worf gave him to promote inspiration (and spare his father’s ears from whatever Belarusian pop group Alexander is obsessed with on a given week). Turning back to Worf, Data affects a casual, almost Rikeresque posture, propping one foot up on the arm of the sofa.

“Say, Worf,” Data drawls, “how’s about you and I go out sometime?”

Worf jabs the (thankfully) blunt needle right into his thumb. 

At Worf’s grimace, Data steps back, setting both feet on the floor again. “Was that too flippant? I was trying to convey virility. I assumed that would translate well to a Klingon audience while still holding on to the human identity to which I aspire. Would you prefer something else? I have several options prepared.”

“Whatever you have to say,” Worf says, “be direct. I do not require any pretension of humanity.”

That strange noise again. Worf wonders if Geordi is using Data to prototype some new steam-powered processing unit. Given the compromising positions Worf has caught the engineer in lately, such an experiment would not be the strangest thing he’s ever done.

“Very well,” Data says. “Would you join me in a romantic activity of your choice in the near future?”

“Why?” Worf sputters.

“From an evolutionary perspective, I make a most desirable mate. True, I cannot procreate biologically, but mating with me doubles you and your offspring’s likelihood of survival. For example, if we were stranded on a remote planet far from civilization, I would not divert any resources from you or Alexander, yet I would be more than able to defend you both, especially at night as I require no rest. Additionally, if I remain sufficiently still, many prey animals do not register me as a lifeform, meaning I could trap and—”

Worf sighs. “Why are you asking me?”

“I have reason to believe that a relationship with you may be the key to accessing my latent emotions.”

“I am not one of your experiments,” Worf hisses. “I am a person.” He looks to Alexander, who remains engrossed in his work. “With a child. I cannot have people coming in and out of his life to suit one of their flights of fancy.” An unmistakable edge creeps into Worf’s voice. “He has lost enough people.”

Data’s only response: that noise again.

“Would you stop that?” Worf demands.

“I cannot,” Data says. “Sighing is the first genuine external emotional response I have ever experienced, and I have yet to learn to suppress it. Although, I admit, I have not tried. I find the phenomena and the stimuli inducing it quite… intriguing.”

“Stimuli?”

“You, Mr. Worf. I have conferred with Commander La Forge and Lieutenant Barclay, and we all agree that my sighing is an emotional reaction to you.”

“You find me that exasperating?” Worf knows he can be hard to get along with, but is he really so unpleasant as to inspire heretofore unseen human behavior in an android?

“I do not believe so. My best guess is that I am falling in love with you. As both the frequency and intensity of the phenomena are increasing, I postulate that my descent is hastening.”

Worf stares up at Data, saying nothing—not out of his usual antipathy toward conversation, but because he is genuinely at a loss of words.

“If you don’t believe me,” Data says, “Geordi and Barclay support my conclusion. And they are experts in this field.”

Worf is about to say that being in a constant state of coitus for the past four months does not make Geordi and Barclay experts on love before realizing that his son, however preoccupied, is still in the room, and Data is referring to their engineering expertise.

Instead, Worf gives his plain assessment of the situation. “This is strange.”

“I am told love often is.”

Worf shakes his head. “You speak of love so flippantly, yet you have no idea what it even means.”

“Perhaps. But I am eager to learn.”

“And you want me as your teacher?”

“Yes.”

“Then let this serve as your first lesson: Love isn’t sighing. It is loss, sacrifice—constant and unending.”

“Then it would appear I know a great deal more than I realized.”

“How? What have you ever—”

“My child is dead, Worf,” Data says. “I may never have experienced the sensation of love for Lal, but she is still gone. My father, as well.”

Worf sets down his cross-stitch. “I apologize. I had not—”

“There is no need to apologize. Compared to your own, my losses must seem relatively insubstantial.”

“No, I was at fault.” Worf stands. “Measuring one’s losses against another’s helps no one. Least of all me.”

Again, the noise. No, the sigh. How has Worf not noticed that before?

Data covers his mouth. “I apologize.”

“No need.” Worf reigns in the urge to touch some part of Data, find reassurance that this person claiming to love him is real and not some phantom. “It is not unpleasant.”

Data lowers his hand. “Then perhaps you will reconsider my offer.”

Worf looks to Alexander and then back at Data, this man who shows such an ease in interacting with his son, an uncanny ability to help Alexander grow in ways Worf never thought possible. All with the added benefit of functional immortality.

“Very well.”

—

Data steps carefully over a fallen tree. “When I calculated your likely choice of venues, this program did not rank within the top fifty options. I assumed you would want to consume a meal. Is that not customary amongst Klingons?”

“You do not eat.” Worf ducks under a low-hanging branch, lifting it so Data can pass under with ease.

“Thank you,” Data says. “But you do eat.”

“Yes. But why would I choose an activity that we cannot both enjoy?”

Data lets out a sigh—his fifth since this evening started.

Worf raises an eyebrow. “What was it this time?”

“I am not sure.” Data stops walking, taking a moment. “Thoughtfulness, I assume. I cannot be sure until I run a full analysis later. As the frequency increases, determining what actions or attributes I am admiring becomes more difficult.”

Worf surveys their surroundings: the mist rising off the placid stream, the leafy shrubs outlining the path, the many species of conifers. In short, anywhere but Data. “You find that much good in me?” he asks.

“Yes.” Data follows Worf’s eyes, trying to see what he sees. “You do not?”

“No.” Worf’s gaze locks onto a raptor perched atop a tree on the other side of the stream. “I am not like you. I try to analyze myself as little as possible.”

There’s nothing entirely spectacular about the raptor. By Data’s estimation, the bird’s averageness would greatly endanger its likelihood of procreating were it not a hologram. All the same, Data looks at it, momentarily sharing Worf’s perceptions. “Does that not hinder your growth as an individual?”

“Everything I need to know about myself, I learned long ago. Anything else would only serve to hurt me.”

Data feels something—a kind of pull towards Worf and his words—but does not sigh. Unusual. He papers over the sensation with facts. “You remain uninfluenced by the particular strain of Enlightenment thinking on self-improvement that permeates this crew.”

“I am Klingon.”

“However, you were raised by humans, yet you exhibit no desire to ‘cultivate your garden,’ to paraphrase Voltaire.”

“The Rozhenko’s did not raise me with the same nostalgia the rest of Earth seems to have for the Enlightenment.” He looks back at Data. “Perhaps because Voltaire did not have very enlightened words to say about their people.”

Data nods slightly. “Commander La Forge has expressed similar sentiments regarding Thomas Jefferson.”

“If constant self-reflection could not better those men, whose faults are so obvious, I doubt it would help me.” Worf stares across the stream, finding the raptor gone. “Besides, the risks are too great.”

Data steps forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with Worf. “The risks?”

Worf’s shoulders slump minutely. “Even without looking inward, I know there are things about myself that I don’t like and am powerless to change. Focusing on them would only jeopardize the one identity I have managed to retain.”

“May I ask what that is?”

Worf pauses. “A survivor. Those around me may die, but I always survive.” Given Klingon cosmology, this is not such a desirable identity.

Hands at his sides, Data extends his right index finger, allowing it to briefly touch Worf’s hand. The contact—devoid of purpose or any perceivable motivation—sends a jolt through Data’s systems. He thinks this might be called “shivering.” “I won’t die,” he says.

“Then perhaps we may keep each other company.”

Data joins Worf in gazing across the stream. “May I hold your hand?”

Worf says nothing as he intertwines their fingers.


	2. Completing the Circuit

Geordi waits until Worf, Data, and Alexander have left Ten Forward hand-in-hand-in-hand before remarking, “That is so adorable.”

Barclay nods. “I don’t think we were ever that cute.”

“Well, we don’t have a kid, so…” Reg’s outline flashes to that particular hue within the ultraviolet spectrum that Geordi has grown to associate with danger. “But, you know,” he adds casually, “we’ll talk about that later. Us having kids, I mean.”

“Of course.” Reg’s bouncing leg rattles the table. “That’s why we have the timeline. So we know when we’re going to talk about things. So there are no surprises. Unless you like surprises. We can get rid of the timeline. It’s not non-negotiable. I’m not some rigid, high-main—”

Geordi places a hand on Barclay’s knee, allowing them to bounce along together. “I like the timeline. It takes the guesswork out of things.” A man of numbers totally lacking Data’s ability for on-the-spot social computation, Geordi gets all the guesswork he can handle managing his subordinates.

“Speaking of that...” Reg lowers his voice. “It’s your turn to… you know.”

Geordi’s hand trails several centimeters up Barclay’s leg. “I know,” he says with a squeeze.

Based on Reg’s heat signature, the blood in his body is having a hell of a time figuring out where it wants to go: his cheeks or his crotch.

“Do you think Worf and Data have… you know?” Reg asks.

Geordi relaxes his hand. “No, I think we would know if they had. I mean, Data practically banged down my door when he realized the sighing stopped.” It took them two hours and an assist from Counselor Troi to convince Data that his feelings for Worf hadn’t disappeared, but had simply changed in their expression now that they were dating. “Can you imagine how confused he’ll be when he starts having genuine emotional reactions below the belt?”

“Do you think we should talk to him? About…?”

“The birds and the bytes? No, Data’s got things covered on the mechanical end.”

“Oh, thank god,” Reg sighs.

“But emotionally? That’s another story.”

—

Data twirls the bat’leth, alternating between hands, passing it around his back. “I think I am becoming quite good at this.”

“This is combat, not rhythmic gymnastics,” Worf says, holding his bat’leth steady in the standard defensive position. “The goal is to survive, not to impress one’s opponents.”

“Do I impress you?”

Worf sighs as Data executes a particularly novel over-the-head pass. “You concern me. Your focus on showmanship leaves you open to attack.”

“While I may deviate from the most effective fighting stances, my reflexes are more than adequate to compensate for any—” Worf allows Data to prove his point by charging directly at him, only for Data to quickly knock him to the ground. “See?”

Worf raises his bat’leth, tracing its edge along a neat slash in Data’s shirt. “See?”

Data considers the torn fabric and the thin scratch to his abdomen beneath. “Were I human, this injury could prove fatal.”

“Fatal, yes.” Worf rises to his feet. “But also preventable.”

Data tilts his head, taking in his opponent. “You have been holding back despite knowing that you cannot injure me.”

“Force of habit.”

“You need not restrain yourself with me.”

“And you needn’t perform for me,” Worf says, inclining his head towards the bat’leth passing lazily between Data’s hands.

Data stills his blade, locking himself into the beginner’s defensive stance Worf taught him. “Very well.”

Worf charges, and this time, Data is ready.

Eighteen athletic minutes later, the bat’leths lie abandoned across the arena following Worf’s seamless transition to teaching Data how to grapple. They establish a nice pattern of pinning each other to the ground, then throwing each other across the room, and then rolling around, fighting for dominance. Data thinks he knows the rules of this game, until Worf starts biting at his neck, which Data doesn’t find wholly unpleasant, so he reciprocates. And then Worf’s mouth is on his own—kissing, not an attempt to suffocate him as Data initially thinks. They’ve kissed before, of course, to say, “goodnight,” or “hello,” or “I like you.” Data doesn’t know what they’re telling each other now; it’s in a language he’s only spoken once before under polywater intoxication.

All Data knows is that his shirt is ripped to shreds, his pants feel tighter somehow, and if Worf keeps making that one move, _something_ is going to happen.

Before Data can figure out what exactly that something is, Worf rolls off of him. “I should go.”

A cursory visual assessment tells Data that he and Worf are sharing the same outward emotional response. He doesn’t need Geordi and Barclay to tell him what this means. “Are you not experiencing all the physical symptoms of amorous desire?”

Worf sits, folding his hands over his lap. “It’s complicated.”

“If you are uncertain about the mechanics, I have a collection of diagrams that may be of assistance.”

“It is not… I am aware of the physical components.” Worf looks down at his hands. “But there is far more to sex than physical contact.”

Data sits, drawing his knees up to his chest. The physical phenomenon has receded, leaving a strange void in its place: a desire to draw in rather than reach out. “I am aware that many beings prefer a strong emotional connection before engaging sexually. Our previous interactions indicate that such a connection has formed. You tell me things in confidence, we share time with your son together, and I… feel things. If I have come to a false conclusion, please tell me.”

“You have grown dear to me. Which is precisely why I want to wait.”

“Forgive me, but that makes no sense.”

“Sex creates complications. I don’t want to endanger what we have by rushing into a more physical relationship.”

“Based on my observations of the last half hour, adding a physical component would only enhance our relationship.”

“In the moment, but afterwards? There are consequences.”

“I am afraid I do not understand.”

“I missed the first year of Alexander’s life because K’Ehleyr and I mated without discussing a future together,” Worf says. “I will not allow my lack of control to jeopardize my relationship with Alexander again.”

Data pieces together their current situation with this seemingly unrelated anecdote (Data cannot become pregnant, after all), extrapolating Worf’s point. “For you, sex entails a level of commitment, into which we should not enter until we have agreed on a future together.”

“Yes.”

Data pauses. “The past thirty-two days have yielded insufficient data to accurately infer the long-term nature of our relationship.”

“Then we must wait.”

“Agreed. However, while we wait, I would appreciate further lessons in grappling. My knowledge of Klingon combat remains quite limited.”

“There are… certain holds I could teach you that wouldn’t compromise our plans. We will need to exercise restraint, of course.”

“My programming contains numerous protocols for restraint.”

—

For the second time this evening, Worf removes Data’s hand from his ass, replacing it at his hip. One of the downsides of lying on top of Data: his hands are free to roam across Worf’s body as they please. The benefits outweigh the risks: to a large degree, Worf can control the motion of Data’s hips, which seem to possess the same independent processing power as his hands.

They have a mind of their own.

Data pulls back, his head denting the couch cushion. “It is not permissible with either hand?”

“Not while Alexander is sleeping in the next room,” Worf says.

“Understood. I will integrate that directive into my programming.” Data recaptures Worf’s lips.

Truth be told, this stationary kissing (even with added teeth) doesn’t do a whole lot for Worf. The nearness is nice and certainly triggers a physical response, but the placidity doesn’t evoke the full ferocity of par’Mach, the desire to claim and be claimed with teeth, nails, and the force of gravity.

It is, however, convenient. They don’t have to reserve the holodeck, or engage a sitter, or take a trip to sickbay afterwards.

And Data seems to enjoy it at least as much as their grappling lessons.

Most importantly, Worf doesn’t have to worry about falling under the sway of par’Mach, and doing something he regrets. He finds the relative freedom from self-restraint refreshing.

Data hears Alexander’s door open before Worf does, pushing Worf away and setting adequately-sized throw pillows on their laps with moments to spare.

Even so, Alexander rubs his eyes and asks, “Were you kissing?”

Worf reflexively offers the same response he has since adolescence: “No.” While at the same time, Data, driven by some directive for perfect honesty, responds, “Yes.”

“Only a little,” Worf concedes, patting down his hair. “And only because we are grown-ups.”

“Okay,” Alexander yawns, stumbling towards the bathroom.

Worf turns to Data. “We should say good night.”

“Of course. You require rest.” Data removes the pillow from his lap and then quickly replaces it. “If you will allow me five minutes to compose myself, I will be on my way.”

It takes him ten.

—

Data stares unblinkingly across the table.

“It will take some adjusting,” Barclay says, “not having you around. Especially after shift.”

“I know.” Geordi pats his cheek. “But it’s only for a week.”

“Still…”

“We can talk over subspace,” Geordi offers.

“I know. But it won’t be the same as… you know.”

“I know.” Geordi leans impossibly closer. “But maybe we could try…” By the angle of Geordi’s elbow, Data calculates a high degree of probability that Geordi’s hand is nearing an area of Barclay’s anatomy that Data has yet to explore on Worf.

“I wonder,” Data says, “can your relationship withstand a week without sex? That is the firmament upon which your relationship is based, is it not?”

At Barclay’s stricken expression, Data gets up from the table, pushes in his chair, and heads for the exit.

“Babe, don’t listen to him,” Geordi says. He adds in Data’s direction, loud enough for all of Ten Forward to hear, “ _He’s being a jackass!_ ”

—

Data leaves Worf awash in sensation: hot blood trickling down his cheek; heart beating in time with Data’s coolant systems; the steady, rocking pressure against his thigh; bite marks on his neck and fingernails raking down his back; uniform stubbornly clinging to him, plastered to his flesh by sweat; impossibly strong arms encircling him.

It’s enough—this closeness—to make Worf forsake over a decade of hard won restraint, a way of life really. He’s ready to give in, forget about the future, and what Alexander needs, but then, as it has a million times before, that one forgettable image enters Worf’s mind.

The first boy he ever kissed—at soccer camp, years before, they were only ten then, it was barely a peck—lying on the field, bleeding. Mikel.

That constant reminder.

Worf pulls away. “No.” He rolls out from underneath Data. “I cannot… I have to go.”

He leaves his bat’leth and Data alone in the holodeck.

—

Data stares down at himself, willing his body to behave, to stop responding to non-existent stimuli. Worf left twenty-two minutes ago; the window for Data to go after him has closed. Besides, Worf was adamant about needing to leave, not wanting to be near Data. Were he human, Data imagines the sting of rejection would have at least a minimal dampening effect on his libido.

Yet he is not human, and his holodeck reservation ends in three minutes. 2000 hours on a Thursday: Captain Picard’s regular Dixon Hill reservation.

If there is a worse time or place for this to be happening, Data cannot find it in his memory logs.

Two minutes, thirty-eight seconds.

“Computer,” Data says, “end program.”

The arena fades away, leaving only Data and Worf’s bat’leth, which will have to suffice as covering.

—

Reg has to admit that, amidst the typical roiling anxiety and slight undertow from his evening medication, this situation makes him a little excited. His first solo diagnostics visit, and an evening house call at that! Commander Data was strangely firm on the comm about Barclay coming to him. But if it’s something Data believes doesn’t require the more refined equipment down in engineering, then Reg is certain he can handle it with ease.

How wrong he is.

The problem is evident the moment Reg walks in the door; he can handle it, but with no measure of ease.

“Commander,” Barclay says, staring up at the ceiling, “I’m with Geordi now.”

“I know.” Data remains naked from the waist down, displaying a level of android virility that seems almost painful.

Reg glues his eyes back to the ceiling. “Then you know why I can’t… you know.”

“Lieutenant, I did not ask you here on a social call. I am having what I believe is a major malfunction of my circulatory fluids.”

Reg marshals whatever professional fortitude he possesses to make eye contact with Data.

The commander smiles slightly. “Although I can understand why you may be confused, given certain adult holoprogram scenarios you reenact with Commander La Forge.”

The blood drains from Reg’s face. He wishes all 5 liters of it would leave his body entirely, drain out through the soles of his feet, letting him die right then and there, a dessicated corpse.

“Please do not tell Geordi I said that,” Data says. “I do not believe he was supposed to share that information with me.”

“He wasn’t,” Reg says feebly, making great strides not to collapse into a heap on the floor and begin his new life as an inanimate pile of organic material wrapped in a Starfleet uniform.

“Can you help me?”

“I can try.” Reg swallows the ‘I think.’ “Have you experienced similar, uh, phenomena before?”

“Yes. In response to physical stimuli, which I can describe in detail if that will aid your diagnosis.”

“No,” Barclay says no less than five times. “That won’t—no.” He coughs. “How long have you been experiencing this… phenomenon?”

“Five hours and twenty-seven minutes.”

This is not good. It isn’t bad; Data isn’t in danger of any parts falling off. But it certainly isn’t good. Data’s circulatory fluid performs a number of vital functions: stabilizing basal temperature, cushioning joints, providing a barrier between discrete components… Confining even a portion of that fluid to one area could negatively impact Data’s motor skills, cognition, perhaps even the very spark of life that makes Data an individual being.

And Barclay has spent the past week worrying about Geordi coming back to a dead spider plant. (The plant is fine. For now.)

“Is this typical?” Reg asks.

“No. Following the cessation of stimuli, the phenomenon typically resolves within ten minutes.”

“On its own?”

“I have installed a guided meditation program that typically helps.”

“Have you tried that today?”

“Yes, but there appears to be an error within the program. I continue to have intrusive thoughts regarding the stimuli. I started experiencing such intrusions prior to today, but never while running the program.”

“I see. Uh, before you called me, did you try anything else to resolve the phenomenon?”

“Like what?”

Barclay squeezes his eyes shut, telling himself, _This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening._ He opens his eyes. It’s happening.

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Like, well, uh, applying stimulus to provoke a, uh, resolution to the phenomenon.”

“You will need to be more specific.”

“Um.” Barclay searches for a suitable engineering metaphor. “Using manual contact to… complete the circuit, as it were.”

“Oh, you mean—”

“Yes, yes, yes. That is what I mean.”

 

“I have never attempted that before.”

“I-I-I gathered that.”

“And you think that will work?”

“Yes. I hope so.” Otherwise Reg will need to find a very sturdy needle and a year’s worth of courage.

“Do you have any advice? There are a number of entries in the ship’s computer on the topic, but I value your professional insight.”

 

“No, no. Just…” Reg trails off, realizing however impossible it may seem to give a superior officer advice on, well, you know, if Data doesn’t get this right the first time, he will likely ask Reg for help again—after describing his failed attempt in cold, excruciating detail. In a bid to “cope ahead,” as Deanna would say, Reg continues, “Uh, well, actually…” He racks his brain thinking of what pearls of wisdom from his decades of practice could possibly help Data. “While you, uh… During the, um, process, try to think about the stimuli that initially provoked the phenomenon.”

Data nods once. “Thank you. Would you like to wait while I—”

“No! No, no. No.” Reg sighs. “No. You can comm me. Once it’s over.”

“And if this remedy is ineffective?”

“Well, then…” _I’ll leave Geordi a note before abandoning my post, changing my name, and starting afresh in the Gamma Quadrant._ “Comm me and we’ll figure something out.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

An hour later, hiding under the blankets, staring daggers into his commbadge, Reg receives a call. “Data to Barclay.”

“Barclay here.” Against his every impulse.

“Your course of treatment was successful. In fact, I was able to induce the phenomenon and found I could replicate theresults of the first treatment, suggesting a—”

The sound of a commbadge shattering against a bulkhead cuts Commander Data off.

—

Geordi’s feet take no more than a step off the transporter pad before his body is enveloped by an alarmingly ultraviolet Barclay.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Reg murmurs into Geordi’s hair.

“Hey.” Geordi rubs circles on Reg’s back. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

Barclay’s chin bobs up and done on Geordi’s head. He’ll take that as a yes.

“You want to talk about it?”

Barclay’s chin swipes Geordi’s hair from side to side.

—

Data arrives ten minutes late to their sparring lesson with hands behind his back and a peculiar jaunt in his step. He has the look of someone who has just been whistling.

Disturbing.

“Before we begin,” Data says, “I would like to give you something. A token of my gratitude.” Data shows his hands which hold a long strip of leather adorned at the ends with metal spheres. “It is an—”

“Ahn-woon,” Worf says. “The earliest Vulcan weapon.”

“The antiquarian told me this was one of the very last to be made with real animal flesh. Would you like to try it?”

Worf takes the ah-woon, swinging it about once, twice, three times. “It has the feel of real leather. Thank you.”

“I am gratified that you like it. I hope that it sufficiently expresses my gratitude for everything you and our relationship has done for me. In the past two months, my capacity to experience and process emotion has grown beyond my most ambitious projections. Should this trend of emotional growth continue as I expect it will, my emotive capabilities will approach typical human levels within ten years. However, since you are unwilling to allow our relationship to progress apace with my development, it seems unwise to continue our current romantic affiliation.”

“Excuse me?” Worf asks. “I am afraid I don’t follow.”

“To use a human expression, I would like to ‘break up.’ I do hope we can continue with today’s sparring lesson. Without the grappling, of course. I do enjoy a physical challenge.”

“Very well,” Worf growls. He whips the ahn-woon, and for the first time in years, he does not hold back.

—

The tablet dissolves slowly under Geordi’s tongue and with it, Geordi imagines, so does his pain.

“Are you visualizing the pain fading away?” Reg asks.

Geordi refrains from gritting his teeth, something that would only aggravate his headache—and his boyfriend. “I’m trying.”

“Visualization is proven to enhance biomedical treatments.”

“Well, it’s not working for me.”

“Maybe it would work if you weren’t taking the minimum recommended dose for toddlers.”

“I told you: a higher dose could interfere with my VISOR.” Geordi disengages the device in question.

“But that’s why you’re taking it at night, so you can get a break from the pain without having to worry about—”

“But what if it doesn’t wear off by morning?”

“Then we’ll deal with it.”

After groping around the coffee table for a moment, Geordi locates the VISOR’s charging case and slips the device inside. (Things were so much easier to find when he was the only one here.) “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not. I know it’s not.”

“I know you know it’s not, but…” Geordi sighs. “You’ve got a lot more experience with this kind of thing than I do. You’ve got, I don’t know, coping mechanisms. Seriously, you have a whole book on coping mechanisms.”

“Two books on coping mechanisms actually,” Reg corrects.

“See? I’ve got one coping mechanism: avoid things, and now that I’ve got someone looking out for me, I can’t do that.” He taps his knee lightly against Barclay’s. “You really know how to spoil a guy’s pity party.”

Reg wraps an arm around his shoulders. “How’s your head?”

“A little bit better now that the VISOR’s off, but no better than it usually is at night.” Geordi pauses. “If it doesn’t let up at all, I’ll talk to Dr. Crusher about starting a higher dose.” He sighs, reclining on the couch, resting his head upon Reg’s lap. “I can see it now. Me and you with his and his pill dividers.”

“I think you can still get one with Braille writing.”

“Reg, I haven’t read Braille since I was five.” Geordi lifts his head, allowing Barclay to place a pillow beneath. “I can probably recognize three letters.”

“Then we’ll get you one that talks.”

“As long as it doesn’t have the same voice as the computer.” The pain ebbs slightly as fingertips rub small circles around the VISOR ports at Geordi’s temples. “I know it’s designed to be soothing and non-offensive, but sometimes I just get so sick of that voice. I can’t be alone in this, can I?”

“You and the computer have a tenser relationship than most.”

“And whose fault is that? Don’t answer that.” Geordi turns his head just enough to kiss Barclay’s wrist. “You wanna put on that Andorran mystery, or start something else?”

“I’m fine with the Andorran. I like the narrator for that one.”

“Alright. Andorran it is. Computer, play—”

Geordi’s commbadge chirps. “La Forge.”

—

Moments after they enter engineering, Data receives the emotional response he anticipated from Lieutenant Barclay. Commander La Forge, however, takes a beat and turns to his fellow engineer.

“Is that…?” Geordi taps his VISOR.

“It’s real,” Barclay says.

“Oh.” Geordi looks back to Data. “Take a seat. You can put your arm on the counter.”

Data complies despite some reticence about parting from one of his parts even if temporarily.

“How did this happen?” Geordi asks.

Data synopsizes the events of the last twenty-five minutes.

“Wait. I can’t be hearing this right. You’re telling me you gave your Klingon boyfriend a melee weapon, broke up with him because he won’t have sex with you, and then asked him to fight?”

“Yes,” Data affirms.

Geordi throws his hands up and stalks out of the room, muttering something very uncomplimentary in Somali. 

Barclay leans down to Data’s eye level. “He’ll need a minute.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

From the next room, Geordi calls, “Everything!”


	3. Weighing the Air

With a sigh, Worf taps twice on the holoprojector, pausing the recording. “You may come out now,” he says. “I know you’re there.”

Alexander, clad in pajamas, steps around the corner.

“Why are you awake?” Worf asks.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I.” Worf scoots down the couch, making room for his son. “Come. Sit.”

Alexander complies, stepping around the holographic figures frozen mid-verse. Settling onto the sofa, avoiding all eye contact, he asks, “Are you sad?” Before Worf can protest, Alexander adds, “You only watch this one when you’re sad.”

“It is good for a Klingon to watch an opera when he is sad. It helps him understand what he is feeling.” Worf doesn’t mention that, for much of his life, the only Klingons offering him comfort have been opera singers. “That’s why your art is so important. It can make people feel things and know themselves.”

“Like you do for Mr. Data?”

Worf tenses. “No, not like me and Mr. Data.”

“It’s different?”

“Yes, very different.”

“How come?”

Were anyone else asking him so many invasive questions, Worf would soon find himself ripping off his second arm of this evening. Instead, he sighs once more, and attempts to explain. “It is said that when a true Klingon artist creates his work, he rips his heart from his chest and molds it into a masterpiece. Like your paintings.” Worf gestures to the the frozen singers littering his living room. “Or Yonara’s songs. And when someone appreciates that art, they give you their heart in return.”

“Gross,” Alexander remarks.

“It is a process we hold sacred.” That earns Worf a solemn nod from Alexander.

“But it’s not like that with you and Mr. Data?”

“No, I thought it could be, but I was mistaken.”

“Because he’s an android?”

“No,” Worf says, “and to assume otherwise does Mr. Data and those like him a great dishonor. The philosopher K’tyhr teaches that honor—even nobility—arises from one’s choices, not one’s origins. It is a lesson I often forget myself, and I would not have you do the same. Data behaved dishonorably out of choice, not destiny.”

Alexander pulls his knees up to his chest. “Did you break up?”

Having no way to mask this simple truth, Worf says, “Yes.”

“Oh.” Alexander rests his chin on his knees. “I don’t want to be an artist anymore.”

“But you are becoming so good. Don’t you enjoy painting?”

“Yeah, but…” He mumbles something into his kneecaps.

“Alexander?”

Alexander sighs. “We can’t take classes with Mr. Data anymore.”

“Mr. Data and I may no longer be together, but that doesn’t mean he has to stop being your teacher. You could take private lessons with him, or if you’d like, we could continue taking lessons together. It will be awkward at first, but—”

“I don’t want to take stupid lessons with stupid Mr. Data!” Alexander whines, kicking his feet to the floor. “He makes you sad and watch boring opera.”

“Alexander,” Worf says sharply, “we do not say ‘stupid’ in this house. Also, Yonara’s work is not boring; her storylines are among the best-paced in the genre.”

“Sorry.” There isn’t a hint of contrition in Alexander’s voice. “But I still don’t want to take lessons with Mr. Data.”

“Very well. That is your choice. But that doesn’t mean you need to give up painting. I can find you a new teacher.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” Worf has no idea how, but he’s going to. “In the meantime, you have much to learn about opera.”

Alexander grabs Worf’s arm as it reaches for the projector. “I can stay up?”

“Just this once.”

Twenty minutes later, gazing upon his son, his arm falling asleep, and a puddle of drool forming on his sleeve, Worf realizes this is the first time he’s seen someone fall asleep during a Yonara piece and not responded with fisticuffs.

—

“Slow down,” Geordi says. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry.” Barclay takes a large gulp of water. “I have a meeting in ten minutes.” He glances across the table at Data. “With Mr. Worf.”

“Mr. Worf?” Data asks.

“Right,” Geordi says. “The holoprogram. For Alexander.”

“Alexander?” Data asks.

Reg swallows the last bite of his dinner. “He’s helping me vet the personality subroutines sent over by the Klingon Institute of Fine Arts. He’s very, um, concerned about authenticity.”

Geordi chuckles. “I bet.”

Reg stands, straightening his uniform. “Alexander’s bedtime is at 2100, so I should be done by then. Do you want me to…?”

“Yeah. We still need to find out if I’m right about Grith’bir’s murderer.”

“Grith’bir?” Data asks.

Reg leans down for a kiss. “It’s the butler.”

Their lips nearly touching, Geordi whispers, “The doctor.” They kiss, and Geordi watches him walk out of Ten Forward.

“Geordi,” Data says, drawing his attention back across the table. “Do humans typically develop selective hearing when in close proximity to their romantic partners?”

Geordi pokes at his salad. “Do androids typically ask questions they know the answers to instead of bringing up what’s actually bothering them?”

Data considers this for a moment. “Yes.” He changes tack. “I asked you and Mr. Barclay a number of questions relevant to your conversation, but you both ignored me. Is this a consequence of your increasing emotional intimacy, or are you both experiencing animosity towards me?”

Geordi sighs, putting down his fork. “Look, we’re not… we’re not angry with you, Data. It’s just, well, Worf is our friend, too. And you two didn’t exactly end things on the best terms. It makes how we feel about you… complicated.”

“I see.” He pauses, rotating his arm within its joint. “It was my understanding that in situations such as this, humans took the side of the friend to whom they are closest. Are we not best friends?”

“We are, but you can’t expect me to follow custom here.”

“Because I am an android?”

“No,” Geordi gasps, drawing stares from the tables around them. He lowers his voice. “No, because you’re not acting like the same guy I became friends with.”

“I am changing. I am developing towards my full potential. I assumed this would make you happy on my behalf.”

“I am. You know I am. Is there anyone on this ship who’s supported you as much as I have?”

“No, there is not.”

“Exactly. Look, I know where you’re going, and I support that, but the way you’ve been trying to get there lately…” He looks down at his hands. “It hasn’t been very fair to Worf. And it certainly hasn’t been fair to Alexander.”

“I never meant to hurt either of them,” Data says. “I made it very clear to Worf that I would like to remain a part of their lives albeit in a different capacity.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s gonna be possible. At least, not for a long time.”

“Why not? Commander Riker and Counselor Troi remain close friends years after their romantic association ended.”

“I know, but this is different. Worf is…” Geordi looks over his shoulders, and then drops his voice to a volume only an android could hear. “Worf is a very sensitive person. He’s a lot more delicate emotionally than Troi or Riker.”

“I see. Should I have continued our relationship to preserve his feelings?”

“No.” Geordi returns to normal volume. “But maybe you could have taken his feelings into account when you ended things.”

“I did. To the very best of my ability.”

“Then I guess this was unavoidable.”

“So, you and Mr. Barclay will no longer harbor any frustration toward me?”

“I didn’t say that. You may have tried your best, but you still left everyone to deal with the fallout of your breakup. Half of ops division is running to me with their problems because they’re either too mad at you or too afraid of upsetting Worf to report to their direct superiors. The tension on the bridge is nearly unbearable—not that you or Captain Picard have noticed. Barclay is working day and night, making a new art instructor hologram for Alexander, and that’s not exactly great for Reg’s state of mind, but he’s doing it because he likes the kid and knows he needs a grown-up in his life outside his father and Counselor Troi. I can’t imagine what Troi is going through right now. So, yeah, we’ll be a little frustrated at you for a while, okay?”

“You are entitled to your feelings.” Data pauses. “Alexander is continuing his painting lessons with a holographic instructor?”

“Yeah.” Geordi rubs his forehead. “That’s the plan.”

“I see.”

“What?”

“I find the implication that I am replaceable—and by a hologram, at that—highly offensive. While we are both electronic systems, I am a sentient being and, barring a few exceptions, holograms are not.”

“Nobody thinks a hologram—not even one Reg is dedicating this much time to—could ever replace you, Data. That’s why half the crew can’t stand you right now. When you broke up with Worf, you ended things with Alexander, too.”

—

Data passes Recreation Hall 17c, but does not enter. The ship’s social calendar lists Alexander’s first showing as “open to the public,” but Data maintains the distinct impression that his presence would not be welcome.

Instead, Data returns to his quarters to sit on the couch, staring at Spot, waiting for her to cross the room and sit on his lap. Eighty-six minutes later, with the aid of two spoonfuls of strategically sprinkled catnip, Spot’s purring vibrates through Data’s legs.

He bends over, his face hovering over her furry abdomen. “Due to nine thousand years of domestication, you are entirely capable of meeting my need for companionship.” He sits up straight, barely dodging Spot’s striking claws. “I am fulfilled.”

—

This time, Data doesn’t come to them with the problem. Geordi has to practically drag it out of him, which, given that this is Data, doesn’t require too much convincing.

After twenty minutes of watching Data pick up practically everything on the table, one item at a time, holding it in one hand and then passing it to the other, Geordi asks, “Data, what are you doing?”

Data stares at the pepper shaker grasped in his left hand. “Calibrating.”

“Okay.” Geordi shares a look with Barclay. “Any particular reason why?”

“To ensure that the weight sensors in my hands are operating equally and effectively.”

Another shared look. “Do you have any reason to believe they aren’t?”

“Yes.”

They skip dessert and head to engineering. 

“At first,” Data says, settling into the examination chair, “I assumed the sensation was a side-effect of my right arm being removed and subsequently reattached. But after careful observation, I realized the sensation was occurring bilaterally albeit to a lesser degree in my left hand.”

“Can you describe the sensation?” Geordi asks. “I know you said it was a discrepancy in your weight sensors, but the more detail you can provide, the better.”

“I will try. The sensation remains difficult to describe.” Data pauses, allowing Barclay to place a sensor under his chin to monitor for any outside electrical interference that may alter their readings. (Geordi never bothered with one before, knowing any interference would be negligible, but systems engineers have a well-earned reputation for fussiness when it comes to precise readings. Barclay, Geordi is certain, has never rounded a number in his life.) “Have you ever lifted an object, assuming it contained more matter than it did in reality? For example, an empty glass you thought was full?”

“A few times.” Since most drinks are served either above or below room temperature, the VISOR can typically detect how full a glass is based on its thermal signature. “It’s like that?”

“Yes. Except I experience the sensation constantly, regardless of what I am holding. I have picked up two hundred and forty-eight objects, all of varying weight, but my hands still felt, in some way, empty.”

Reg looks up from his console. “Systems readings are normal, showing no malfunction or overcompensation in calibration or sensory processing.”

“Then it has to be mechanical,” Geordi pronounces. “Data, I’m gonna need you to hand over your hands. With me and Barclay on it, the test shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

“That is unnecessary,” Data says. “I already performed the mechanical examination yesterday.”

“Data, you would’ve had to take off your own hands. How did you even perform the test?”

“With an admittedly heightened degree of difficulty.”

“And?”

“The test showed no mechanical irregularities.”

Geordi suddenly realizes why Data didn’t bring this to them sooner. “Data, now that we’ve ruled out mechanical and systems malfunctions, you know what I’m gonna tell you, right?”

Data stares dead ahead, completely silent.

Geordi continues, “This sensation, this emptiness is most likely a psychological response.”

“I had considered the possibility. However, I discounted it given that this sensation, unlike the other psychological responses you have treated me for—sighing, priapism—does not—”

“Wait, wait,” Geordi interrupts. “Priapism?” He looks back to Barclay, who has disappeared from plain view and, based on infrared readings, is now hiding behind his console.

“While you were attending the conference on Deep Space 2, Lieutenant Barclay provided treatment in your absence.”

Geordi makes a mental note to treat Reg to a warm beverage and a very thorough snuggle once they finish here.

“As I was saying,” Data continues, “I discounted the possibility of this sensation being psychological in nature since, unlike sighing, it is a response unobserved in humans.”

“Just because you haven’t seen us do it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. I mean, when I was on DS2, my arms felt empty at night because Reg wasn’t there.” Geordi makes a point not to mention the first example that came to mind: how, on nights when it is Reg’s turn to do a certain thing, Geordi sometimes feels a certain emptiness afterwards.

“Then it is possible that this sensation is related to my recent change in relationship status?”

“I can’t be sure, but that seems the most likely catalyst. I mean—” Geordi flashes to a sight common on the Enterprise as recent as last month: Alexander, Data, and Worf walking through the halls, hand-in-hand-in-hand. Data in the middle, his right hand holding Worf’s, and his left hand gripping Alexander’s comparatively lighter palm.

_Oh, Data._

—

Data stares down at the drawing created in-class for “sharing time.” Rushed, done in school art supplies rather than professional colored pencils, it is not one of Alexander’s serious efforts. 

But it was a gift, and that somehow endows it with value beyond its artistic merits.

Under a rainbow (improbably located in Data’s quarters, but demonstrating a clear mastery of shading), Data stands between Alexander and Worf, holding their hands. (Having viewed other children’s art, it seems odd now that Alexander isn’t in the middle, but Data assumes he was simply trying to replicate reality, an arrangement designed to satisfy both Alexander and Worf’s wishes to hold Data’s hand. Circumstances have changed dramatically in the past month; currently, to the best of Data’s knowledge, no one wants to hold his hand. Two people seems somewhat excessive.)

With no other recourse, Data searches the drawing for meaning. Geordi would not provide an adequate diagnosis, connecting the sensation in Data’s hands to holding hands with Alexander and Worf, but refusing to speculate on the sensation’s meaning. (“I can’t tell you how you feel,” Geordi said. Data reassured him that yes, yes, he could, and Data would greatly appreciate him doing so.)

The simplest explanation requiring the least amount of introspection: Data’s systems have merely become accustomed to the presence of Alexander’s and Worf’s hands in his own.

Multiple factors contradict this hypothesis. Their handholding, while frequent, only occurred over the space of two months, which is hardly sufficient time for his systems to develop an expectation of stimuli. While physically superior to humans in many respects, Data does require a longer period of routine activity to develop the equivalent of muscle memory. (Data assumes this was intentional on his father’s part. Perhaps as a way to counteract the predilection of earlier human attempts at robotics to lodge themselves in corners.)

Additionally, the sensation did not develop immediately following the breakup. True, Data may have been distracted by the sudden limb loss, but it was only last week that he noticed the sensation, providing a space of three weeks between the breakup (and subsequent limb loss) and his initial observation. When Tasha died, he felt the loss of her almost instantaneously. With Lal, he missed her before she was even gone, while her neural net was still failing beneath his fingertips.

Simple physical expectation of stimuli is unlikely.

What then?

Data’s eyes trace the lines of the drawing, searching for answers in the cross-hatching—so much more deft and confident than in Alexander’s earliest attempts. Children have always amazed Data with their capacity to change and grow so quickly—Alexander comes second only to Lal in that respect. He came so far as an artist (and perhaps even as a person) in the few months under Data’s tutelage. Data finds it difficult to infer how Alexander’s skill has developed since their lessons ended.

He no longer knows Alexander as he currently is. All he has are memories.

Worf remains static in Data’s mind. He knows everything Worf will ever tell him about himself. Worf will change alongside his son and Data will only witness this through their professional interactions: moments on the bridge, in staff meetings, passing each other in the corridors.

So consumed with his own development, Data only now realizes that Worf and Alexander are on a similar journey, one that Data has lost all right to experience with them. He assumed that memories of them and their time together would suffice, and yet...

To worsen matters, Data’s rapid emotional development has plateaued. The only evidence of emotional growth this past month is the emptiness in his hands, a feeling he is beginning to call “regret.”

—

Worf’s regular booth, tucked away in a small corner of Ten Forward, was selected for its strategic value. Largely out of sight and backed by walls on two sides, it’s location discourages detection and surprise attacks by enemy combatants—and, more importantly on the Enterprise, close friends.

However, while robbing any potential assailants of the element of surprise, the table’s positioning does enhance any interlocutor’s ability to corner Worf. When it comes to physical attacks, this issue doesn’t concern Worf too greatly. He does, after all, have the highest certifications Starfleet offers in close quarters combat. (Not that they offer nearly enough for Worf’s liking.) In the case of social visits, Worf finds that simply glaring long enough at an approaching acquaintance is more than enough to make them suddenly see a friend across the bar or forget they left an important PADD at their workstation.

That is, assuming the person stalking towards him has a steady grasp on human body language.

And experiences fear.

Apparently, Data’s emotional development has not progressed that far as he continues undeterred toward Worf.

Worf, delivering a glare so fierce that he’s suprised Data hasn’t burst into flames, refuses to speak first.

“Hello, Worf.” Data gestures to the chair across from Worf. “May I sit?”

“You may do as you please,” Worf snarls. “What you do or do not do no longer concerns me.”

Data nods. “Thank you.” And sits, setting a PADD on the table. “Can we talk?”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Then I will speak.” At Worf’s move to get up, Data adds, “And you will listen. If not out of courtesy, then in recompense for your behavior the last time we spoke privately.”

Worf eyes Data’s deftly reattached arm. Wiping the look of smug physical superiority off Data’s face with a well-timed ahn-woon whip delivered an instant rush of righteous satisfaction, which has worn off in the recent weeks. Now Worf only feels the shame of his own immaturity. Data, while strong and a quick study with the bat’leth, is no Klingon. He does not play or mate like a Klingon, and therefore had no reason to expect Worf to draw first blood as the wronged party. True, if Worf had any Klingon family to speak of, they would not care that Data is not a Klingon. Upon hearing Data’s motivations for ending their union, the Lady of Worf’s House would have torn both of Data’s arms off. Not to mention certain other appendages. Dishonor must be answered for.

Even still, Worf says, “Speak. If you must.”

“Thank you. In the weeks since ending our relationship, I have come to regret the decision, which I made without a full consideration of the facts. I therefore could not anticipate the effect our parting and my removal from your and Alexander’s lives would have on me.” Data pauses to consider his palms, lifting them up and down as if weighing the air. “Without your and Alexander’s hands to hold, my hands are empty. I have tried holding other things: PADDs, a paintbrush, Spot.” He clasps his hands together. “Even myself. And yet the sensation of emptiness remains. I miss you, Worf. As keenly as my shoulder socket missed my arm. I now realize that you are a part of me, as much as—”

“You realize that now,” Worf snaps, “but what about in two months when you realize something else about yourself and your _feelings_? What will happen to me and Alexander then?”

“I would never hurt you again. Now that I know—”

“What? What could you possibly know?”

“I know that what I feel for you is not coincidental. The emotional responses I experience do not occur merely in your presence, but because of your presence. You inspire within me a depth of emotion I previously considered impossible. Your absence has made me realize the foolishness of forsaking you in pursuit of some greater emotional calling. For me, there is no greater emotional calling than walking hand-in-hand with you and Alexander. Theoretically, it may be possible to feel more than I do for you, but I personally could not withstand it. As we speak, I struggle to remain intact much like the Enterprise at warp ten. Worf, the way I feel for you compromises my structural integrity.”

Were that monologue in Klingon and set to a 12/8 time signature, Worf would be launching himself across the table right now, heedless of modesty or his own (admittedly compromised) virtue.

Fortunately, Worf finds himself entirely immune to Data’s tuneless overtures, and responds, “The way you feel does not matter. I do not exist—my child does not exist—simply to satisfy your feelings.”

“You accuse me of something I have never said or done,” Data says.

“From the very beginning, you made it clear that this is about your emotional development, your path to humanity. You used me and my son, and when I would not accede to your physical desires, you left us. What comfort is it for an abandoned child to know that he was once loved? Emotions mean nothing if they are unaccompanied by duty and sacrifice.”

“I respectfully disagree,” Data says. “I know with absolute certainty that nothing matters more than my love for you.”

Perhaps not entirely immune to Data’s overtures, Worf grits his teeth, fighting for restraint. “Then you know nothing.”

“Debatable. However, I do feel.” Data stands “I hope you will reconsider, and even if you do not, you should have this.” He slides the PADD across the table.

“What is it?” Worf asks.

“A gift.”

—

Leaving Ten Forward, Data adds “confusion” to his expanding repertoire of human emotion. Worf’s remarks run counter to decades of direct observation of human behavior. Data’s exposure to Klingons (particularly their mating rituals) is admittedly limited, yet through Worf he has grown to know their culture. Worf’s words contradict those artifacts of Klingon culture that he professes superior: opera, poetry, all manner of visual art. How could Worf enjoy such texts when he so thoroughly disagrees with their central tenet: the beating of two Klingon hearts drowns out all concerns of the material world?

Perhaps “the beating of two Klingon hearts” is precisely the problem. Perhaps Worf cannot value their feelings for one another because Data is neither Klingon nor possessing of a heart to beat in time with his own.

Perhaps Worf never had feelings for Data to begin with. Perhaps he simply desired a co-parent for Alexander, someone who could take over should he fall in battle. A contingency plan.

Is this self-doubt or merely a series of sound hypotheses?

Requiring an outside opinion and unwilling to return to Ten Forward so soon (Guinan, he believes, favors Worf anyway), Data sets off for Geordi’s quarters.

Fully expecting to interrupt something that he will unlikely ever participate in again, Data is surprised to find Geordi alone, fully dressed, and wearing his VISOR.

“Hey, Data! You’re just in time,” Geordi calls from the lounge. “Can you give me a hand with something?”

Data steps around and over Geordi’s personal effects littering the floor. In the lounge, Geordi’s carpet is barely visible under the haphazard arrangement of boxes.

“Can you move those over to the corner?” Geordi asks, gesturing to the boxes. “I’d use the antigrav sled, but I’m not supposed to operate any heavy machinery until I know how these new painkillers will interfere with the VISOR.”

Data nods. He moves to pick up a box before hesitating. “Geordi, are you leaving?”

“No, I’m moving. Deck 8, section 32.”

Data lifts the box easily. His hands still feel empty. “That section is devoted to couples quarters.”

“Yeah. Me and Barclay are finally moving in together.”

“This is very sudden.” He places the box in the corner of the lounge.

“Not really.” Geordi cuts a length of g-force negating paper. “It’s been on the timeline for months.”

Picking up another box, Data asks, “The timeline?”

“Yeah. It’s…” Geordi stares intently at the knick knack he’s wrapping. “It’s this thing we do. Me and Reg. It helps… remove ambiguity.”

Data, whose life contains far too much ambiguity at the moment, asks, “How?”

“Well… It’s kinda hard to explain. I mean, it probably sounds completely ridiculous to anyone besides me and Barclay, but it works for us, you know?”

“I do not know, because you have yet to explain what ‘it’ is.”

“The timeline… It’s… You’ve studied human relationships, right?”

“Thoroughly.” 

“Then you know the basic relationship milestones.”

“Of course. First date, first kids, first sexual—”

“Right. And the timeline takes all the guesswork out of when all that’s supposed to happen.”

“Guesswork?”

“It can be hard to tell sometimes. Like, when Reg and I first started going out, I didn’t program him a passcode to my quarters for two months, because I wasn’t sure it was the right time. Would giving him a code scare him off? Were we really that serious? Did I even want to make that kind of commitment?”

“Forgive me,” Data says, “but how could you not know? You love Mr. Barclay.”

“I know. It seems silly now, but at the time, things were so new and confusing.”

“I see. Were the novelty and confusion interfering with your emotional processes that determine progression towards relationship milestones?”

“Emotional…?” Geordi flops onto the couch, rubbing his temple. “It might be the new meds Dr. Crusher has me trying out, but you’ve lost me.”

“I will clarify. When querying humans about the nature of romantic love, many long-term couples have told me that a human ‘just knows when it’s right.’ This statement occurred frequently enough within my research to warrant the extrapolation that humans possess some kind of emotional sensor which alerts them when a relationship should progress to the next stage. Humanistic research methodologies confirm this extrapolation. Human art contains thousands of examples of characters suddenly realizing that they are destined to marry another character. Your anecdote seems to indicate that your emotional sensor was malfunctioning or otherwise compromised during the initial stages of your relationship with Mr. Barclay.”

“Data, I don’t have a sensor. Barclay doesn’t have a sensor. Nobody has a sensor.”

“Then how do you know?”

Geordi shrugs. “You don’t. I mean, I know I love Reg, but there’s a lot more that goes into making a relationship last than love.”

“There is?”

“Yeah. There’s… there’s communication. Which neither me or Barclay are very good at. I mean, even routine communication can give him a rash, and the only body language I can reliably read is in infrared. You know, half the people on this ship think I’m the nicest guy in the world, because I always smile when we pass in the corridor. But, really, I just default to smiling, because most of the time I have no idea if anybody’s happy to see me.”

“Were I human, I would be happy to see you.”

“Thanks, Data.” Geordi leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “My point is: the only way a human can know if he’s ready to give someone a passcode to his quarters or move in together is by talking about it. Since Reg and I both find that terrifying, we have a whole timeline laid out of when we’re going to have these discussions. That way he’s not stressing about me springing some awkward conversation about commitment on him, and I’m not racking my brain trying to figure out when I should bring it up.”

“I beg your pardon, but that does not sound very romantic.”

“Don’t let the name fool you: romantic relationships aren’t all about the romance.”

“But romance and its attendant emotions do play an important role?”

“Yeah, of course. Feelings factor into things, but they’re not the only factor. There are… Okay, take me and Reg, for example. We decided to move in together because, at this point in our relationship, it’s really important that we spend as much time together as a couple as we do as chief engineer and subordinate. That was the main reason. But I’d be lying if I said our feelings—not wanting to spend any nights apart, wanting a place that’s just for us—didn’t factor in. If I’m honest, I think we both wanted to move in together at least a month ago.”

“But you did not.”

“Right. Because that would violate the timeline.”

“Yet would you not have experienced satisfaction in cohabiting sooner?”

“Yeah. I guess. I might have been happy in the moment, but in the long-term, setting that kind of precedent—going against the timeline because we felt like it—wouldn’t be good for either of us or our relationship.”

“Emotions mean nothing if they are unaccompanied by duty and sacrifice,” Data says, drawing out the meaning of Worf’s words.

“That’s one way of putting it, I guess,” Geordi says.

“If you will excuse me—” Data stacks the last box neatly atop the others. “—I have much to consider.”

“Alright, see you tomorrow.” As Data navigates his way through the mess of moving quarters, Geordi adds, “Thanks for helping me with the boxes.”

Data pauses at the door. “You are welcome. If you require any further assistance, please let me know. It is…” He settles on an emotion. “…satisfying to provide assistance to someone who helps me so frequently.”

Geordi smiles. “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

—

Worf does not like gifts, surprises, or (at the moment) Data. He finds all three to be far too unpredictable in their delivery and much too demanding in their expectations. Yet, a day later, Data’s surprise gift remains in Worf’s possession and in one piece.

The smart thing to do, he realizes, would be to place the gift in the recycler, dissolving it alongside any lingering hope that Data would one day become the kind of partner that Worf needs. There’s also the less smart but likely more satisfying option of mangling the PADD beyond all usability and leaving it outside Data’s door.

Worf does neither.

But neither does he turn the PADD on. If he cannot bring himself to destroy Data’s present, he can at least deny Data the satisfaction of appreciating it. Having chafed under the laws of humans for so long, Worf has perfected pettiness as a mode of resistance.

After shift, Worf finds himself checking to ensure that the PADD is still where he left it: stashed away in the footlocker where he secures some of the more dangerous and esoteric melee weapons a child Alexander’s age should not have access to. Not that Alexander has ever expressed any interest in weaponry, but one can never be too careful with items so lethal and expensive.

As expected, the PADD remains carefully ensconced between an Oolanian battle axe and a Proxcinian scythe. (Currently arranged alphabetically, Worf’s weapons cache is organized and reorganized with the same frequency as a prized collection of vintage music recordings.)

It would be so easy to do permanent, irreparable damage to the device. One axe swing and he could have closure—something Counselor Troi insists is vitally important. But then he would never know what the PADD contains for good or ill. Despite being labeled “uncurious,” “disinterested in others,” and “completely closed minded” by a number of respected professionals, Worf must admit that he is not entirely immune to curiosity. He would wonder what the PADD said. Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but eventually in the years to come.

There is no way he’s going to allow Data to exert that kind of control over him and his thoughts in the future.

This ends now.

—

_Dear Worf,_

_This PADD contains two things: (1) journal entries recording the immediate context in which I experienced a physical emotional response termed “sighing,” and (2) qualitative analysis of each journal entry. Through this analysis, which I performed subsequent to completing all of the journal entries, I have attempted to identify the deeper causes of each individual emotional response beyond empirical description of time, setting, and the actors involved._

_Any errors within or false conclusions reached by the qualitative analysis are entirely my responsibility, since I did not believe it appropriate to subject this study to peer-review given the sensitive nature of the study. I please ask that you keep this document to yourself; I did not request sentient subjects approval before beginning this study (which was originally intended to serve only as a personal medical record), and therefore it would be highly unethical to publish this document in any form._

_I hope—and I use that term in more than the colloquial sense in this instance—you benefit from reading this study as much as I have from completing it. I hope that you find the results of this study applicable to your life, if not with me than with someone worthy._

_Sincerely,  
Data_

—

Instance 1

Setting: the Bridge

Circumstances: Discussion about lunch amongst bridge crew has turned into a debate about the best sandwich. Mr. Worf affirms that a hot sandwich containing dairy cheese and porcine meat native to Qo’noS is superior to all others, and refuses to hear any further arguments.

Further Notes: Previous to this incident, I learned through our nightly art lessons that Mr. Worf’s son, Alexander favors a dish called “grilled targ and cheese.” Despite his purist leanings toward Klingon traditions (including cuisine), Mr. Worf respects his son’s affinity toward the hybrid human-Klingon dish, which he has declared the “sandwich of champions” and serves when celebrating milestones in Alexander’s progress as an artist.

Analysis: Emotional response triggered by Mr. Worf’s evident affection and respect for his son despite their many differences.

—

Instance 8

Setting: Ten Forward

Circumstances: Guinan requests assistance in creating a replicator pattern for an artificially sweetened prune juice substitute after receiving complaints that sugary drinks are not suitable for children.

Further Notes: Mr. Worf is the only person on board who regularly consumes prune juice for reasons unrelated to digestion. He also enjoys complaining. It is reasonable to assume that the person complaining was Mr. Worf.

Analysis: Emotional response triggered by the realization that Mr. Worf wants to share his interests with his son not out of strict adherence to Klingon cultural norms (prune juice is not a Klingon beverage), but rather out of a personal desire for familial bonding. The request for a healthier alternative to prune juice demonstrates Mr. Worf’s concern for his son’s continued existence, likely motivated by love.

—

Instance 17

Setting: my quarters

Circumstances: Painting lessons. Mr. Worf remains pleased with Alexander’s innate skill, but still displeased with his own shortcomings as an artist.

Further Notes: Mr. Worf does not typically engage in activities in which he does not excel.

Analysis: Similar to instances 1, 6, and 13, emotional response triggered by Mr. Worf’s love and willingness to sacrifice for his son. Additionally, Mr. Worf’s continuing struggle to attain even basic proficiency with a paintbrush, while unexpected for someone of his age, might be described as “endearing.”

—

Instance 23

Setting: the holodeck

Circumstance: Touring the Galleria Nazionale di Capodimonte. Mr. Worf determines Artemisia Gentileschi to be an “artist of honor,” is somewhat dismayed to read that she is dead. Alexander thinks the blood is “neat.”

Further Notes: none.

Analysis: Emotional response triggered by Mr. Worf’s appreciation of art, a trait we share. Also, Worf’s latent disappointment over Gentileschi’s passing seven centuries after the fact and Alexander’s juvenile appreciation of blood fall under the general category of actions deemed “cute.”

—

Instance 31

Setting: my quarters

Circumstance: Mr. Worf poses Alexander next to his completed painting for a holo-capture to send to Alexander’s grandparents.

Further Notes: none.

Analysis: Emotional response triggered by Mr. Worf’s fatherly pride toward Alexander and his filial piety toward his adoptive parents. My actions as Alexander’s art teacher facilitated this moment of intergenerational family bonding.

—

Instance 32

Setting: corridor 14g

Circumstances: Mr. Worf nods as we pass each other.

Further Notes: none.

Analysis: Emotional response triggered by the acknowledgment of my presence by Mr. Worf, an individual who, without any alterations to his character or habits, is worthy of love.

—

“Are you okay?” Alexander asks still clad in his singlet and stirrup pants. (Gymnastics, Worf decided, is a sport that, while strenuous enough to exhaust an elementary schooler, puts Alexander at little risk of committing manslaughter before reaching the age of majority.)

Worf becomes conscious of his current position. Not only is he lying on the floor, curled around the PADD like an adolescent with a romance novel, while lost in Data’s words, he seems to have removed the ahn-woon from the footlocker, and now clutches it to his chest like Molly O’Brien’s stuffed targ.

He sits, struggling to regain some small measure of composure. “I am fine.” He places the ahn-woon back in the footlocker. (He’ll need to go back and alphabetize it later.) “I was just reading.”

Alexander remains dubious. “Reading what?”

Worf searches for an answer that would justify his state of physical and emotional disarray without treading too deeply into the territory of dishonesty. “Poetry.”

—

“Hello, Alexander,” Data says. “Is your father home? I would like to—”

Were Alexander capable of initiating the emergency protocol causing all doors in a given area to close at eight times their regular speed in the event of a hull breach, contaminant, or boarding by an enemy, Data is certain that Alexander would slam the door in his face. As it stands, with Alexander’s comparatively limited engineering knowledge, the door closes at its typical pace, providing Alexander the opportunity to show Data his tongue.

Data stares at the closed door, attempting to reconcile his high opinion of Alexander with the boy’s rude behavior. Upon realizing that his own behavior likely influenced Alexander’s (unlike Geordi or Barclay, Alexander has clearly ‘taken a side’ in his father’s breakup), Data turns to leave. Hearing the door swish open again, Data looks back, expecting (at best) an apology or (at worst) an escalation in rude behavior requiring Data to report the incident to Alexander’s father.

Instead, there is only Worf.

“Commander,” Worf says. “I apologize for Alexander’s behavior just now. He is… protective.”

“I understand,” Data responds. “If I retained any claim to your heart, I would be protective of it as well.”

This line (however honest, Data must admit that it is still what humans term a “line”) does not have its intended effect. Worf’s features constrict in anger as he steps into the hall, allowing the door to shut behind him. Stalking toward Data, he says at a volume barely above a whisper (for the benefit of Alexander’s ears, Data is certain), “Why must you make things so difficult? You know we cannot be together, and yet you give me that PADD full of all manner of absurd flattery and now you come to my door in the middle of the night, daring to speak of my heart?”

“The PADD I gave you contained no ‘absurd flattery.’ My sincerity protocols were fully engaged when I wrote my observations and analysis. Furthermore…” Data consults his internal chronometer. “…it is only 1828 ship’s time. That hardly constitutes ‘the middle of the night.’”

Worf takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why have you come here? If you hold even half as much regard for me as you claim, you would know that your presence, as one I cannot have, only serves to further torment me.”

“I have never intended to hurt you.”

“And yet you do nonetheless.”

“I am sorry.”

“You are sorry?” Worf shakes his head. “Do you have any idea what you are apologizing for? Do you know how it feels to want someone so absolutely, but to turn from them out of duty? Every day, because you fail to be worthy of a place in my son’s life, I must absent myself from your kindness, your patience, your understanding that so few are willing to…” He trails off before continuing at a lower volume, “I ache for you.”

Data steps forward, struggling to hold his hands at his sides. “My current emotional and physical impulse, if I am interpreting the sensation correctly, is to hold you in my arms. However, I sense that would not be helpful at this time. Perhaps we could take a walk instead and discuss what I believe is a possible solution to your emotional distress.”

—

Still under the sway of Data’s “poetry” and against his better judgment, Worf agrees to take a short walk, if only to decrease the risk of Alexander overhearing them and developing some kind of guilt complex. After receiving assurances from Alexander that he could be trusted to take a bath on his own (preceded by a brief argument over whether he _really_ needs to take a bath tonight: “Without question. You’re tracking gym chalk everywhere.”), Worf departs, following Data down the corridor.

Worf waits until they are well away from his door before speaking. “You mentioned a solution.”

“Yes,” Data replies. “Although I cannot claim full credit for it. Before I offer a full explanation, I would like to pose a question I neglected to ask you earlier.”

“Very well.”

“What do you require from a romantic partnership?”

Worf wars against the impulse for dissemblance. During their admittedly brief courtship, Worf refrained from discussing his long-term needs and desires, afraid that the magnitude of his expectations would send Data skittering away like a startled hare. It was only after Data proved himself entirely unworthy of fulfilling those expectations that Worf felt comfortable referencing them. 

Yet even when throwing Data’s own inadequacies in his face, Worf never mentioned any specifics. In truth, Worf has little experience articulating what he needs from any kind of relationship, having learned from a young age that doing so would only earn him accusations of filial ingratitude. As Counselor Troi has informed him time and again, setting healthy boundaries and relationship expectations is a skill that, while typically developed during childhood under the guidance of one’s guardians, can be learned at any age.

But if there’s anyone who can sympathize with Worf’s emotional immaturity, it’s Data.

Worf clears his throat. “I need a partner who will remain faithfully at my side—and I at theirs—through tragedy and triumph. I need a partner willing to raise Alexander—not as a stepson, but as if he were their own child.” 

(Klingon culture has no equivalent to the human role of “stepparent.” Klingons who marry someone who already has children are accorded the same rights and responsibilities as the child’s other parents—even if that marriage ends in divorce. If the “stepparent” later remarries, their new spouse is also expected to parent the child from their new spouse’s previous marriage. In rare cases, this tradition results in children with over a dozen parents, which, to Worf, who has no Klingon parents to speak of, has always seemed a little unfair.)

“It may seem unfair or too demanding,” Worf says, knowing full well the weight of parenting someone who has previously been someone else’s child, “but I expect nothing less.”

“I hope your relationship needs can be met,” Data says. “Will you permit me one more question?”

“Yes.” After all, what could Data possibly ask that requires greater emotional honesty than has just been demanded of Worf?

“Why did you choose me as an avenue for meeting those needs?” That. Data could ask that. At Worf’s hesitation, Data continues, “I presented you with an entire study on my feelings for you. While I do not expect such an elaborate description, I do believe it would be suitable for you to reciprocate.”

“You have qualities… that I… admire.”

“Please specify.”

Worf grits his teeth, his jaw muscles bulging in his cheeks. “You are… kind. Incredibly generous with your time. The fact you even conform to everyone else’s schedule—mine, Captain Picard’s, Starfleet’s—when your lifespan means you could take as much or as little time as you’d like… It shows you care about others. You choose to care about others. Even knowing that you will lose all of them, every person you have ever met. As someone who has been through that, I know what kind of courage it takes to walk into it willingly. I hoped that I might be able to prepare you for the losses to come.” Not that Worf is coping so well with his own losses all things considered.

“I try, “ Data says, “very hard to be kind. I appreciate you recognizing my efforts even though I have failed to treat you kindly in the past. I have a process that I believe will allow us to be kind to one another. As a couple. It’s called a timeline.”

“A timeline?” The term takes Worf back to lessons on Gault about single-celled organisms, dinosaurs, and early humanoids all lined up neatly on one long tract of time.

“Yes. Although perhaps the more accurate term would be ‘schedule.’ I did not choose the name.”

Worf thinks to question Data about who came up with the name, but decides he doesn’t entirely care.

“The timeline,” Data continues, “requires that you and I compile a list of milestones we would like to reach as a couple. For example, cohabitation. We would then arrange those milestones on the timeline according to when we agree to discuss advancement to that specific milestone. Only at that proscribed time would we talk about the plans for our future.”

“That sounds very…” Worf can’t settle on an adjective; there are so many. “No real couple would follow such an arrangement.”

“Geordi and Barclay do.”

Worf amends his previous statement, “No normal couple would follow such an arrangement.”

Data does not dispute the claim about his friends’ normalcy. “Perhaps. But we are no normal couple.”

“True. But what works for Geordi and Barclay—” And Worf has to admit whatever they’re doing is working. “—may not necessarily work for us.” Indeed, their methods must be very unique, highly customized to address Mr. Barclay’s specific and numerous neuroses and Geordi’s… whatever’s going on with Geordi, Worf isn’t exactly sure, but he assumes it’s serious.

“You dislike discussing your feelings, and I do not understand mine,” Data says. “This agreement would compel you to disclose your emotions, but only at specific intervals, while preventing me from making rash decisions based on an incomplete understanding of my nascent emotive capabilities.” Data stops walking. “Most importantly, it would create the kind of stable family environment Alexander needs.”

“Do you think it could work?”

“I estimate a high probability of success. If you are willing to commit. Are you willing?”

—

Data and Worf cling to each other with such fierce tenderness, Worf’s hands cupping Data’s face, Data’s arms wrapped around Worf, his hands caressing Worf’s hair, their lips parting only long enough to claim the joy of coming together once more, two bodies marveling at their own capacity for nearness.

Two bodies pressed against the door to Barclay’s quarters.

Reg opens his mouth to speak before shaking his head and backing away quietly. Packing can wait; he’ll stay at Geordi’s tonight.


	4. Epilogue: Counting Heartbeats

Data presses his ear to Worf’s heart, willing his circulatory fluids to pump in time. His body requires far less cool down time than Worf’s, but he finds matching Worf’s heartbeat as it returns to its normal pace soothing in some way.

“Did you find that satisfactory?” Data asks, a common refrain recently.

Worf kisses the top of Data’s head, and murmurs into his hair, “With you, I am always satisfied.” Data doubts their one week of (albeit frequent) sexual intimacy generated enough data for Worf to make such a totalizing statement, but he appreciates the compliment nonetheless.

“Yes, but with regards to the specific act you just performed, did you derive more or less satisfaction from it than from the other sexual arrangements we have tried?”

Worf leans back, resting his head on the pillow. “It was nice, but I prefer feeling you press against me. Taking the force of you when you are so much stronger than I…” As Data has learned, Klingon euphemisms rely far more on physics analogies than obscenities. “It is exhilarating.”

“I agree.”

“Then you did not enjoy…?”

“I enjoyed the closeness, as always, but the arrangement inspired more discomfort than pleasure.”

“You didn’t…?”

“I did, but as a result of… external factors.”

“But you said that you have—”

“Yes, but not enough elasticity in the surrounding tissue to take full advantage of that structure.”

Worf’s arms tighten around Data. “Are you… hurt?”

Data tilts his head toward Worf. “No. It was not painful, merely uncomfortable.”

“If you face discomfort in my arms again, tell me.”

“I will. In the future, will you be content to engage in this activity only in the arrangement from which we previously derived so much enjoyment?”

“Very.”

Data settles back onto Worf’s chest, counting heartbeats.

—

Worf only realizes that he’s drifted off to sleep when he feels strong hands grip his forearms, shaking him gently.

“Worf,” Data hisses. “Alexander will be home in approximately 186 seconds.”

Worf blinks twice and jumps out of bed, naked as a classical bronze sculpture. “Computer,” he barks, “what time is it?”

“1747,” the computer responds. Alexander’s gymnastics practice ends at 1735.

Looking somewhat offended, Data says, “You need not go to her for that.”

Having more pressing concerns at the moment, Worf ignores Data’s jealousy of the ship they live on. Scouring the room for his pants, Worf snaps, “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

“I enjoy watching you sleep, and since Alexander can only go on so many sleepovers, this seemed the perfect opportunity to—” A Starfleet uniform to the face cuts Data off.

“Get dressed!” Worf pulls on his undershirt, tucking it into his pants. By the time he looks back at Data, he is clad in his pristine commander’s uniform.

“Shall I fix your hair?” Data asks.

Worf pulls on his uniform top. “Find my shoes.” Worf’s right hand slides up the front of his shirt, activating the fasteners integrated into the fabric, while his left hand runs through his hair, ripping through several tangles along the way. He swears a blue streak in Klingon.

Data hands him his boots. “You seem distressed.”

Worf sits on the edge of the bed, which is in dire need of fresh sheets. “Thanks in no small part to you…” He pulls his black socks from underneath the covers. “... Alexander has grown very observant of late.” 

Having inherited his father’s skill for pettiness, Alexander refused Data’s invitations to play in the holosuite, recognizing Data’s transparent attempt to reinsert himself in Alexander’s good graces. After a serious talk with his father about the honor in forgiveness, Alexander relented—with one condition. He got to choose the program and the characters they’d play. To Data’s surprise, Alexander selected his and Geordi’s Sherlock Holmes program and took on the title role. After a brief panic (“But I always play Sherlock Holmes. I do not play Watson. Geordi plays Watson. I play Holmes.”), Data accepted this turn of events as an opportunity to enhance Alexander’s powers of observation, something necessary in an artist.

Pulling up his socks, Worf continues, “If something is amiss, he will notice.”

Data removes Worf’s baldric from the bedpost. “Does Alexander not know we are having sex?”

“Alexander is three years old; he doesn’t know anyone is having sex.” Worf pulls his shoelaces a bit tighter than what is strictly necessary. “And I would like it to stay that way.” He pauses tying his shoes to allow Data to drape his baldric over his shoulder. “Klingon children may grow quickly but they are still children.” 

Worf knows the danger of Klingon children being seen as adults more acutely than most. From whispers heard long after he should have been in bed, Worf learned his family’s exodus from Gault was inspired in part by growing sentiment amongst the villagers that Worf should not only be arrested on charges of manslaughter but also tried as an adult. Fortunately, calls for his arrest died down once his family left for Earth, where Worf spent the remainder of his thirteenth year in relative anonymity.

“Father!” Alexander calls from the lounge. “I’m home. What’s for dinner?”

Worf stands from the bed. “How do I look?”

Data gives him the once over. “Repressed.”

“Good.” He exits his room, Data following at his heels.

Alexander, still in his singlet and stirrup pants, screws up his face upon their entrance. “Were you fighting?”

“No,” Worf says, all too aware of how fragile Alexander’s acceptance of Data remains even months after their reconciliation. “We were not fighting.”

“Then why was the door closed?”

“We were taking a nap,” Data says.

“But you don’t sleep.”

“Yes, but I enjoy watching your father sleep.”

“That’s weird.”

“I suppose it— _hic_ —could be perceived that way.”

“What was that?”

“What was— _hic_ —what?”

“That! That noise.”

Worf narrows his eyes. “Did you just hiccup?”

“Of course— _hic_ —not. I do not possess a— _hic_ —diaphragm, and am there— _hic_ —fore incapable of— _hic_ —upping.”

Worf taps his commbadge. “Worf to La Forge.”

—

Geordi doesn’t typically let kids come into engineering; it’s not exactly the safest part of the ship and god knows they don’t need another Wesley Crusher on their hands. But he makes an exception just this once for Worf, who couldn’t find a sitter on such late notice. To be honest, Geordi finds Worf rushing Data down to engineering the moment symptoms manifested kinda cute. Not that he would ever tell Worf that. As Alexander will tell anyone who listens, “Klingons are not cute!”

Alexander remains out of the way, sitting on a tall stool behind Barclay’s console. Barclay, being surprisingly good with kids (or at least this kid), explains what all the wires hooked up to Data are telling his computer.

Worf stays posted at Data’s side, despite Data’s protests. “I am— _hic_ —fine. This is likely a psycho— _hic_ —logical response.”

“Not according to my readings.” Geordi looks up from the PADD hooked into Data’s neural net. “I’m detecting a minor blockage in your abdominal region.”

“It seems to be impacting coolant systems,” Reg says. “They’re working beyond max capacity.”

“But his internal temperature is beyond normal levels,” Geordi says.

“Internal propulsion is showing unusual activity. Intermittent.”

“My internal propulsion may— _hic_ —be attempting— _hic_ —to dislodge a— _hic_ —foreign object.”

And that’s when Geordi sees it: little puffs of hot air exiting Data’s mouth with each hiccup. The aura surrounding Data must have been blocking it from view earlier. Which can only mean that the air’s temperature is increasing, providing a larger and longer lasting disruption to Geordi’s infrared view of the room.

“Data,” Geordi says, “I think your internal propulsion is trying to compensate for a malfunction in your coolant systems by forcing hot air out through your mouth.”

“Is this serious?” Worf asks.

“It could be if you hadn’t brought him in when you did. I can open him up right here and remove the obstruction—” Geordi glances at Alexander. “—but it’s not something I’d want a kid to see. I mean, it’s surgery. Outpatient, but fairly invasive.”

Worf looks between Data and Alexander, torn for a moment, before turning back to Geordi. “Understood.” He calls to Alexander. “We must wait outside while Mr. La Forge and Mr. Barclay work.”

Alexander hops off the stool, approaching Data. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Yes.” Data nods. “But surgery is— _hic_ —for grown ups, and you— _hic_ —are still— _hic_ —a child.”

“Okay.” Alexander takes his father’s hand, allowing himself to be led out of the room.

In the doorway, Worf provides a final warning: “Commander, remember that I know where you sleep,” and leaves. It’s an empty threat; Worf would never kill someone in their sleep.

With Barclay’s help, Geordi makes quick work of removing Data’s abdominal plating. With that off, the problem becomes readily apparent: some kind of semi-viscous fluid is building up around Data’s main coolant pump, having dried enough to compromise the pump’s function.

Geordi runs a tricorder over it, and to his great relief discovers that the fluid is organic—meaning not coming from Data, not the result of an internal fluid leak.

“It’s a foreign substance,” Geordi announces.

Reg sighs. “Do you know what it is?”

“Something organic, that’s about it. Could you run a sample?”

Reg nods and goes about collecting the sample.

“Data, when was the last time you ate something?”

“Besides my typical lubricant supplement?” Data asks.

“Yeah,” Geordi says. “That’s not organic.”

Reg takes the sample over to his console.

Data pauses, thinking for a moment. “I had an apple in February.”

“Anything else? Maybe gelatine? Or bone marrow? Pesto? Maybe, pesto? That kind of congeals after a while, right?”

“No.”

“What about cheese? Yogurt? Any kind of milk product?”

“No.”

Geordi shakes his head. “Then I don’t know what it could be.” He leans over Data’s torso, aiming a probing finger at the mass of fluid. Just before breaching its surface, Reg slaps Geordi’s hand away. “Ow.” Geordi shakes his stinging hand. “What was that for?”

“The sample contains Klingon DNA,” Barclay says breathlessly. “Klingon haploid DNA.”

Data cocks his head to the side. “In Klingons, haploid DNA is only found in gametes, the sperm and ova.”

Geordi looks at the pile of fluid he almost sunk his finger into. “You just saved my life, Reginald Barclay.”

—

Worf stands as Reg enters the room. “Is he…?”

“Data is fine. The surgery was completely successful.”

“And the blockage? Will it recur?”

Barclay steels himself. “It could. But Geordi and Data are developing a modified lubricant supplement that would prevent that. Which may take some time. So.” He takes no less than three calming breaths. “In the meantime.” He takes the box from behind his back, shoving it into Worf’s hands. “I’m told these would fit.” And scurries back into the lab before Worf has time to read the packaging.

Data may have finally come to him and Geordi with a problem they can fix, but this is definitely not what Barclay volunteered for.


End file.
